The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 12.11.10

“If my poetry aims to achieve anything, it's to deliver people from the limited ways in which they see and feel.” Jim Morrison

Depot (above) by our featured artist and mad painter Jon Marquette, one of over 20 artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery.

Just in case you missed it, here's a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...


The Lie

The lie is a simple thing
but difficult like a dragonfly
to hold.
Oil burns loosely
and gives way to the study of teeth.
A deck of cards
and a bug light
drank whiskey in the desert
near a pile of empty wallets –
and the Dow took note.

The lie is a simple thing
that is easy to say,
not so easy to read –
often with good manners
and good teeth.

dogs barking don’t lie
and birds don’t lie.
neither do the sun
nor a white moon.

But the spider’s trick
is to pretend
it does not exist.

Spiders come to every window and every doorway –
the lie is a simple thing.

The lie is a simple thing
and easy to use on your friends.

The lie is never (rarely) punished by jail.

Most good people tell
lies sometimes.
Prior to the mythology of serpents …

when was the first

The visible universe
is an entire deception
unto itself,

and lies are things
I say to myself.

Chris Hamilton

(2 poems added 12.11.10)

editor's note: It was "prior to the mythology of serpents" that we learned to speak and turn actions with words... Beautiful! (Another good one from Chris on his page, it's about life and death and the questionable morality of war... I think; you read it and tell me what you think.) - mh



For the bedwetter singy
the steamed
fucking songs
his fucking throat
was it weekly
no he said screwing himself
to wretch music
would demand too much fucking effort
like cumming cummy goo
but it was the music
it was always about the music

Ashok Rajamani

(added 12.10.10)

editor's note: Yes, indeed, every hard effort is always about the music - gotta strain for the nicest notes, the creamiest chords. Yes! - mh


The Poetic Junkie

Poetic Junkie (above) by T. Bell

As I recite these rhymes in verse
My mind is full and about to burst
I need a pen, a pencil, a crayon
Somebody please give me something to write with
Before I lose my mind, up in here
Then I’ll be hell to deal with
I need some paper, a napkin, toilet tissue, or anything
That I can write my thoughts down on
So I can ease my pain
Because, I’m feigning, I’m feigning hard
I haven’t hit a lick since last night
My mind is overflowing
And I have the need to write
Last time I felt like this
I pulled some crazy stunts
I drank a fifth of Hemmingway
And smoked two fat azz Langston Blunts
I snorted a couple of lines of Shakespeare
And washed it down with Maya Angelou wine
I was high as a Mother F***er
But I had also freed my mind
You see, I’m a Poetic Junkie
It’s a never ending fight
I got a two poem a night habit
And I’m addicted to the Mic
Sometimes I wake up in a cold, cold sweat
Just to write down my dreams
Sometimes I recite verses while making love
That makes my woman cream
For me, there is no detox, there is no rehab clinic
Ain’t no way I’ll go cold turkey,
I’d lose my mind in a minute
Now I don’t condone the use of illegal substances
Poetry is my drug of choice, you see
I just hope that when you read my words
That you get high off me

T. Bell

(added 12.09.10)

editor's note: Here we have full disclosure from a long-time inductee into the Poetry for Life 12 Step Program - the only rehab program that teaches full recovery comes only from total immersion in the addiction. Wanna get well? Write more poetry! - mh


Other People’s Problems

I am down with OPP:
bring me your problems
people, I am here
for you, I am here.
Dead mother? yes
Cheating lover? yes
Public intoxication arrest?
yes yes yes. See, I am only
me when I am with you
telling me your problems.
These are the reasons why:
One, I think I love you.
Two, you have this power
over me, as a result
of my deep infatuation
with people like you: human beings.
They have this complicated ball
inside them, like a dust cloud
of nagging hope.
Three, I’ve never been good with
empty space.
Let me help you help me help you.
There is peace somewhere
between us. If we touch each other
I know we can find it.

Tyler Gobble

(1 poem added 12.08.10)

editor's note: We're all here together - might as well figure out how to fill the space together, while not consuming it. Yes, we could use some help! Thanks, Tyler G.! (See Tyler's new page as a Contributing Poet.) - mh



80 degrees
October night
University of South Florida loses its homecoming game

Without her methadone
She is in pain
My poetry day is not the same

Sander Blome

(added 12.07.10)

editor's note: Hmmm. No poetry day is the same, no matter who wins the game. We cry out loud in verse to articulate our pleasures and our pain. - mh



We were entwined in bed and I was holding her
when suddenly she told me the famous poet
in our writers group liked me.

“I like her too,” I said, because I was always na├»ve about
such things, and so the one I was holding had to tell me
that no, the famous poet didn’t just like me but she also
wanted to sleep with me.

The famous poet was old enough to be my grandmother
but it seemed like everyone in this writers group wanted
to sleep with everyone else, and things like age, gender,
and past loyalties didn’t much matter.

The one I held, in fact, was nine years older than me
and married. And I should have realized then
the reason she was in bed with me was because
the famous poet wanted to sleep with me,
and if the woman in my bed couldn’t write poetry
like the famous poet then she could at least fuck
the young poet that the famous poet wanted to fuck.
I should have realized that, but didn’t until much later.
I guess my vanity let me believe she loved my work.

Part of the education of any poet is in learning
how few people, even poets, care about poetry.

James Valvis

(added 12.06.10)

editor's note: Oh, the bitter truth! Not so many true lovers of poetry? Naw, not that. Rather, not so many famous poets who want to fuck me... hell, famous or not, not so many. - mh


Joke's On You!

Projectile and red
chunky yet pure
reminds you that you
don’t hate your body
but your body
despises you.

4 shots ago your
body was saying
“hell yes!”
2 minutes ago your
body wanted off the
bright red spinning
tea cups.

Now your body has
been overthrown by
a jury and based
on the evidence
you have a future
sweater stain that
will be laughed off
by noon tomorrow.

Someone who knows
your pain comes and
assists you to an
incubator that feels
like Christmas day
but I hate to break it
to you…
you're still on the tea cups.

You close your eyes
and dream of a time
when booze was
tasty and
actually fun
and when the cold
porcelain brim wasn’t
the eventual pillow
of choice for the night.

Andrew Longabaugh

(added 12.05.10)

editor's note: Oh, the cold wisdoms, come from capricious choices. We embrace those chances to choose; what is rational and judicious, or what is swept up in the swirl. Yes, we get wiser all the time. Thanks, Andrew! - mh


The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...


Johnny O

MH Clay
Poetry Editor